To  paper and pen, he goes again.

To find some truth, or whatevers
akin.
Yet, he writes in circles, no telling where to begin.
His questions grow louder, approaching wits end.
His answers slip through, fingers broken with sin.
Theres so many voices, and none to befriend.
So lost in a world, that continues to spin.

If he could only know,
As long as theres breath,
He's destined to win.